


this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

by pasdecoeur



Series: superbat works [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 10:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17558507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/pseuds/pasdecoeur
Summary: And then she said, “Oh,” in that clear, low voice of hers. “You're in love with him.”





	this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Age of Aquarius](https://archiveofourown.org/works/173) by [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza). 



> vaguely inspired by [The Age of Aquarius](https://archiveofourown.org/works/173) by [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza) from which i stole all the best lines, except plagiarism still can't make this even half as good. title from e.e. cummings' _'[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]'._

Today had been too close.

The thought of it was heavy on his mind, catching with sharp, hidden claws in his gut. It lingered through the mission debrief, stuck with him through the wall downstairs to the founders’ chambers, in the snug sub-levels of the watchtower, through Diana’s offer of a drink, Clark beside him, Diana across, the milky way bright and cold through the transparisteel windows set into the walls.

But he hid it well. Even here, it was hard to switch it off, the instinct to mask, to camouflage: Bruce was vaguely aware he was talking about a new strain of corruption in gotham’s hospitals, an increase of pharmaceutical theft that exceeded the standard deviation by an alarming margin. Someone high up had to be involved, and Bruce Wayne was throwing a fundraiser for the local medical community in the hopes that they'd turn up. If not, well, fundraising was as good a job as any.

Clark was listening with his usual brand of earnest thoughtfulness, his eyes trained solely on Bruce, and that did something funny to his insides, made his stomach drop like he was in free fall, made him feel—like if he could just reach out, touch, that Clark would touch back, would close his eyes, and make that soft delicious sound in the back of his throat, and hold on to Bruce as tightly as he needed—

He ran hot, after a fight, Bruce knew—

_“God, you feel so good–” Clark’s mouth, opening under his, wet, lush, a groan vibrating in his throat. Bruce didn't know where to touch him, where to hold him, had walked him to a wall, shoved a thigh between Clark’s knees, felt the hard, heavy bulge and rocked against it._

_“Bruce–” Clark had whispered, choked, and then hands working at belts and pants and catches, and they were shoved out of the way, Bruce’s utility belt, the super suit in its entirety, and Clark was flush against the batsuit, naked, naked, miles of flawless skin, and Bruce’s throat had gone dry._

_“Christ, look at you, sweetheart,” and Clark shuddered, gripped his ass and dragged their hard cocks together, the heat of him impossible to describe, like reaching into the heart of a star going nova, and pushed bruce's mouth over his again, letting Bruce bite and shove his tongue in, inelegant, hungry, furious, rutting right there, against the wall in the Batcave, “tell me what you want, tell me,” one hand wrapping around them both, and Clark’s cock was so, so wet, thick, clear globs of precome, spilling from the tip, slicking them both until they were gleaming, red, a shaking, desperate moan working out of Clark’s mouth._

_“You–” He had said, “I just want you, Bruce, please–”_

_“I could– My mouth, do you want– I want to, taste you, I want–”_

_Clark’s eyes had blown wide, and his knees had shaken, and he had buried his face in the curve of Bruce’s neck, and thrust against Bruce’s cock so hard then, just from those words, his whole body hot, like sunlight, like it was spilling over, all that bright warmth, and he said, “Bruce,” in that quiet, broken voice, and come, right over the suit, thick, white spurts of come, coating Bruce's cock, coating his abs and his thighs, dripping to the floor, and Bruce had, just as quietly, just as desperately, followed—_

“I could come,” Clark said, and Bruce blinked. _What?_ “If you needed another pair of eyes at the fundraiser. It's not completely weird—the Planet’s pretty invested in its sister city too. So. I could. Um. Come.”

Oh. Jesus _Christ_.

“Redundant,” Bruce replied tersely. It was times like these, that he was glad he had a far greater degree of control over involuntary functions than the average person. “The whole house is wired—and what isn't will be locked. Your presence won't provide any additional information.”

Clark tensed, and didn’t say a word.

“ _Such_ a way with words, Bruce,” Diana muttered into the quiet, and drained the rest of her drink in a gulp.

Too harsh? Damn it to hell, his attention span was completely shot tonight.

“However,” he continued, in the same blithe vein, “I do need you to come by the Cave.”

“Oh?” Clark's eyes were cautious, his posture pulled slightly away.

“I have about twenty thousand hours worth of CCTV footage from every camera in every hospital pharmacy in the city,” Bruce said tersely, wishing he hadn't pushed the cowl down. This would be easier with a little armor. “Filtering the data down hasn't netted any results but if you could watch multiple screens, simultaneously, at an accelerated speed, we could move ahead much faster.”

“I can't do that in the cave. The frame rate needs to be preserved at twenty four even on fast forward, and only the systems up here are configured for my abilities.”

Bruce tensed. This felt–like too much. He was showing too much. _Pull back,_ said the voice in his head, the one that kept him alive on Gotham’s rooftops. _You need to pull back now._

He ignored the voice. “The Cave has been optimized to match.”

“Has it,” Clark said quietly, but there was a faint upturn to his lips, and Bruce’s chest tightened for a brief second, before that sweet stretch of release, expanding wider and wider till it felt like there was no room for his lungs. “Alright then.” He rose up to his feet. “I’ll see you at… twelve?”

“Come by whenever; Alfred will be there. I’ll have to stay upstairs till four-ish.” He shrugged, already exhausted at the thought. “Bruce Wayne can't skip his own parties.”

Clark nodded, and left, and Bruce sprawled back in his chair, taking a long slow sip of his drink, watching him walk away. Diana was watching him, he knew. His side felt… cold, without Clark there.

And then she said, “Oh,” in that clear, low voice of hers. “You're in love with him.”

Sometimes Bruce wondered why Diana held the lasso of truth—there were things about the world she simply could not grasp, through the lens of her Amazonian heritage, certain basic concepts that simply eluded her—but then equally, there were times like today, when Diana would see the way Bruce sat, after Clark had left a room, and say: _Oh. You're in love with him._

Like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“That's not the point,” Bruce replied. There was no use denying it, and more importantly, Bruce didn't want to lie, not to Diana.

“Of course that is the point,” Diana said. The glow in her eyes was bright and uncomplicated. “Love is always the point. Bruce, you must tell him, you must. Being apart like this does you both no favors, you must trust me on this: it only hurts, it only ever hurts—”

“Do you think I don't know that.”

Diana’s jaw clicked shut.

“Do you think I don't—” Bruce realized he was gripping the tumbler too hard. Carefully, he set it down. “That I don't want to.”

“He loves you too,” Diana ventured, and Bruce shut his eyes.

“Do you remember,” he said, quietly, “when he died.”

“I try not to.”

Bruce laughed humorlessly. “Something interesting happened in the media, when Superman died.” He opened his eyes. “They started writing our obituaries.” He pulled up a 3D display from the gauntlet, a screen full of icons, each a superhero’s insignia: the arrow, the lightning bolt, the trident. A canary, a bat, a pair of hawks.

“These are for us?” Diana asked.

“These are the Gotham Gazette’s obits for us, yes. I have a contact—well, technically, Batman does. But every paper, every news channel, every podcast and talk show—they’ve all written their own.” He paused. “I bet Clark’s even written a few, for the Planet.”

Diana looked away, frowning. “Why are you showing me this.”

Bruce smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not just Batman, though. I’m Bruce Wayne too. You can guess what that means.”

“Two.” She swallowed. “There are two obituaries for you.”

Bruce inclined his head. “It’s not a flattering comparison: Batman versus Bruce Wayne. A lot about my parents, and about my personal potential— _potential_ , mind, because Bruce Wayne falls… short, by a hand and several feet. Because being Wayne means that my life is under constant siege. It means I’m photographed, surveilled, wherever I go. It means, since I’m already connected to the League, since I am rumored to be financier to both Batman and the League, the typical question on the mind on any half-decent reporter is: does Bruce Wayne hang out with Superman? Does Bruce Wayne fuck Wonder Woman?”

Diana’s gaze had not flickered. Bruce altered the hologram to a series of photos, flicking by rapidly.

The first was a shot of Bruce, standing under the portico of the Waldorf-Astoria, to avoid the rain.

The second followed on its heels: Clark, coming out of the entrance to stop beside him. A quick hello.

Then, Bruce, saying something as Clark grinned, their heads inclined together.

A car, driving by, splashing water, obscuring the sightline.

Clark’s hand, reaching out. A close-up, broad fingers resting on Bruce’s arm.

_—they were standing so close. So close—_

Clark laughing, shaking his head.

...Taking off his glasses.

Tilting his face up, towards the canopy of the portico.

Straightening up. Looking at the camera.

 _Superman_.

Clark Kent was Superman.

Diana cursed softly.

“We got lucky on that one. It was the weekend of the peace summit, the one in Gotham. Vicky Vale took that photo herself—she contacted me when she realized what she had.”

“Your contact at the Gazette.”

Bruce nodded.

“She knows.” Diana sounded horrified.

“She knows.”

“Does Clark know that she knows?”

“No.”

_“Bruce…”_

Bruce waved his hand—the hologram collapsed inwards, the light dimming with it. “This is what I do, Diana. I keep the secrets no one else wants to do. Protect the dead. Guard the vault.”

“So you never tell him, is that it?” Diana sounded angry now, once more, furious and vengeant. “You never say a word, you live the rest of your life, keeping this from both of you, keeping this thing that you both _need—_ ”

“What other choice do I have.” He scrubbed his face, and wished he hadn’t out his drink down. “Think, Diana. Even if. Even if there was a chance that he—that he wanted me the way that I—it would put everyone he loved in danger. Mrs. Kent, Jimmy, Lois. Jesus, it would destroy Lois’ career, ruin her reputation to shreds, put her in Luthor’s crosshairs for the rest of her life. It would—I can’t do that to him. I can’t hurt him. Not—not again.”

Diana’s hand reached out to his, gripped his palm tightly. “How long? How long can you carry this alone? How long before it breaks?”

Bruce gripped back, hard. “Let’s hope we never have to find out.”

* * *

  
  


“Nice speech,” Tim murmured, walking up to Bruce, taking the seat across from his, at a deserted table. Most of the party had moved to the dance floor or the card rooms, and in four cases, to the loos and the downstairs broom closets.

The house really was wired to the fucking rafters; on this, Bruce had not lied to Clark.

Bruce grinned, cocky and charming, just in case someone was watching them. “I try,” he shrugged broadly, false modesty dripping from his mouth, and Tim snorted. “Your end going well?”

“Well enough. Gotham General’s children’s oncology ward might be getting a serious upgrade so, not a total wash, tonight. No luck on the pharma-fraud front. Oh, and you need to go kiss a ring.”

“Is that right.”

“Olga Smyrnova. Oil heiress, in the pink Roberto Cavalli, by the fountain, your six.”

Bruce glanced at the silver votive centerpiece, caught a flash of blinding fuchsia in the warped surface, and cocked a brow. “Alright. And don’t drink any more champagne; I need you sharp tonight.”

“What? No, I didn’t—” Bruce stared blandly, and Tim’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, alright, jeez. Clark doesn’t breathe down Connor’s back like this, you know.”

“Connor isn’t his son,” Bruce replied easily, and rose up out of his chair, walked up to Smyrnova, with a slightly lax smile and glazed-over eyes, bow tie just the right degree of askew.

Tim’s eyes followed him the whole way.

* * *

  
  


It was a bad crutch, stereotyping, but you couldn't hear ‘oil heiress’ and ‘pink Cavalli’ in the same sentence without conjuring up a very specific image: some pouty, glossy-haired thing, on teetering heels, glittering with ropes of diamonds around her neck, perfectly willing to throw ungodly amounts of cash simply to capture her rich, handsome host’s attention.

It was a surprise, then, when Smyrnova turned out to be a steely-eyed matron in her fifties? Sixties? Whip-thin, with elbows like knives, and slate-gray hair all piled up on top of her head in some godawful coiffure that was probably popular in Moscow thirty years ago, and in America during the Cuban missile crisis.

“Mme Smyrnova,” Bruce greeted, tipping a very full champagne flute in her direction and missing her sleeve by a fraction of an inch.

“Bruce Wayne, in the flesh.” Her accent was faint, like she’d spent time enough in America to lose it almost entirely, and there was a wry curve to the corner of her mouth—that was incredibly rare. “What a pleasure.”

Her gown, on the other hand, really was an alarming color. If Bruce has been drunk, he would have sobered up immediately.

….maybe _that_ was the point.

“I’ve been informed,” Bruce murmured, stepping into her space, and offering her his arm, which she accepted, “that Gotham owes you considerable thanks tonight.”

“And you are this wretched city’s mascot, to be the one to offer it?”

Bruce grinned. “‘Fraid so, ma’am. Nobody else volunteered.”

She cackled. “‘Ma’am,’” she repeated incredulously. “Call me Olga, Bruce. And don’t shame me by offering thanks. Not for tonight.”

It was a curious choice of words. Bruce drained his flute and grabbed another from a passing tray. Alfred did not try to catch his eye as he strode away with Bruce’s empty glass of cider—they were both well-practiced in the exercise of getting Bruce Wayne “drunk”.

“Shame you?” he asked.

“You have sons, yes? The police officer, and the boy at the table behind us, and the little one, with the angry brows, who looks just like you?”

Bruce cocked his head at her. She was even sharper than she looked, and she looked like a fencing blade. “Yes.”

“You love your sons.”

“Very much,” Bruce replied quietly.

 _Four sons,_ he wanted to tell her. _Not three. I lost them, but they came back to me, and I have four sons, and I would die for them in a heartbeat, four, four, not three._ He closed his eyes and felt blood on his hands and rain on his face and a scream in his chest. He opened them, and saw dark, grey eyes on him, reading him like a book.

“I loved my son very much as well,” she said. “He was eleven years old, when he died. Hereditary, you see. Extremely early onset. His father had died when he was four. I was twenty-nine, and too young to be a mother. I didn't know how to be a widow. Gotham General had the best children's oncology department in the world, even then, so I came here, many, many years ago, but Nikolai died anyway. You don't know, Bruce, what it is like to lose a child, and I am glad. I am glad you don't. Parents, we are not meant to outlive our children.” She fell quiet, all of a sudden, lips pursing tightly together, eyes focusing somewhere else.

Bruce knew this well, this strange, heavy silence—all his conversations had been like this, after Jason. Fractured. Incomplete. He had hardly been able to tolerate anyone’s presence, when it came, the numb, heavy quiet, like fine daggers raking under his skin. But Clark had sat through all of them, had never said a word, had somehow… known.

It was how they had first kissed, Bruce remembered: the vibrating sorrow-rage-grief of it had left him gasping, once it receded, shaking, trembling, and Clark had pulled him in, had hugged him even though Bruce hadn't wanted it, didn't want anything to touch him, anyone, didn't want to leach his ugliness, his corruption, into anyone else, least of all _Clark_. But Clark had done it anyway, held him in a grip like iron, and that was the place where Bruce had fallen apart, the only time he had cried, shaken and gasped, hacked ugly, wrenching tears Clark’s shoulder. They had collapsed to the ground in a corner of the Cave, and when Bruce had pulled himself together, he had looked up at Clark, and buried his fingers into those dark, soft curls, and tugged him in, and kissed him, soft as anything, soft as a promise, as a heartbreak, and Clark—somehow, impossibly, miraculously… Clark had kissed back.

“I’m sorry, Olga.” His voice was hoarser than he’d intended.

She looked back at him, sharp, narrow. “Yes,” she murmured, sounding satisfied, “You are. Are you married, Bruce?”

“I haven't been so fortunate, no.” She took his arm again, and they set off through the crowds once more.

“Fortunate, ha! Four times, I’ve been married, and let me tell you: fortune had nothing to do with it.”

“Fourth time wasn't the charm?” Bruce teased and Olga cracked a canny grin.

“Bozhe moi, no, it _very_ wasn't. Marriage is for tax purposes, Bruce. You fall in love, you put them in your bed, and never let them out. Have you met Dmitri?”

“I haven't had the pleasure,” Bruce demurred, and halfway through his sentence, Olga was waving her hand in the air at the crowd, gesturing someone to her like a tsar’s wife in feudal Russia.

“You must, he is _delightful,”_ she said, and Bruce watched a young man, maybe older than Dick, stride up to them, in perfectly-tailored, silver-grey Armani, lean-hipped and dark-eyed, like something out of a swimwear catalogue. He was younger than Olga by several decades—he was definitely younger than Bruce.

“ _Really_ , Olga,” Bruce murmured, half-shocked, half-approving, “of all the things i expected…”

“Oh, pfft, he’s after my money, and I’m after his body, and sometimes we even like each other—it was my first husband I loved, Bruce. Until he died, I didn't let him go, and for a long time afterwards, too. Dmitri is my vacation before the afterlife.” She paused, and met his eye, grinning cheekily. It took a decade off her face.

“I’m going to leave him _so_ much money.” She sounded positively gleeful.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and Olga laughed, soft and utterly dazzling. “I loathe my relatives, darling, and besides—sometimes, to be happy, you just have to tell the world to go fuck itself.”

* * *

  
  


Bruce shedded the tux on the way down to the cave. There was a comforting ritual in putting on the batsuit, even Bruce did it so fast his hands blurred, the practice of a decade behind each hyperefficient motion.

He strode silently into the cave, the dull glow of the wall-sized monitors bleeding into the dark already, but he stopped short when he saw Clark, cape and all, watching some twenty-odd cctv feeds at once, the display a haze of indistinguishable color.

It lit up his face, his chest, his shoulders, cast him in strange flickering shades of blue, like some space-noir temple god, and Bruce’s heart caught, squeezed too tightly in his chest.

Christ, he was— _beautiful_. that was really the word for it. Beautiful.

Bruce shut his eyes. _Don't you think i want to,_ he had said to Diana, in the Watchtower, but he hadn't explained it to her, not truly, that it went well past wanting, the way he felt about Clark.

 _Need_ , came closer to the surface. _Crave_ , maybe. Not like air, but like heroin, an addiction, a desperate desire, a destructive force that would lay waste to all their lives, and all because Bruce was—weak. Human. _Weak._

“Hey,” Clark greeted, politely, without looking away from the monitors. “How was the party?”

“Fine,” Bruce replied. His voice was hoarse again. Unintended, again.

“Computer, pause playback,” Clark murmured, and turned to Bruce. “Bruce, is everything alright.”

“It's fine,” Bruce muttered. He walked over to the workstations, where one of Barbara’s half-dissembled gauntlets was propped up, the layers peeled back to reveal the damaged shock plating. Fixing it was the easy part—dropping it off at her safe house when she wasn't around, without tripping her alarms, so she’d accept the damn thing and not throw a fuss, that would be the real trick. Though maybe she wouldn't mind—she was a lot more coldly pragmatic than the boys, she wouldn't turn down an advantage for the sake of pride. That particular trait of hers, Bruce knew, was pure Gordon.

He heard Clark exhale tiredly. It was cruel, to cut him out like this, Bruce knew, when he’d spent hours stuck in front of mind-numbingly dull surveillance footage for god knew how long, but what could he say?

_Clark, I don't know how to look at you and not want you. Clark, talking to you hurts, but every moment I’m not around you hurts worse. Clark, I need you to say you don't want me, I need you to want me, I need you every goddamn second, I dream about you, and every dream is a nightmare where you die and I’m not there, every dream is better because you're there._

_Clark, do you understand what this is._

_Do you know, do you know how to make it not hurt anymore._

He forced himself to turn around, and Clark was watching him too, seat turned around. “Any luck on the feeds so far?”

“A few possibilities. I’m compiling a list, and running them against facial recog. Bruce, what happened at the party?”

Bruce looked away, at the floor. “One of the donors, she—her son. She donated to the children’s oncology ward at Gotham General. A significant amount, by any standard.”

“That must be some cheque,” Clark said, when Bruce fell quiet. “Her son?”

“He died,” Bruce said, a little too sharp to hide the truth. God fucking dammit, he was completely off-kilter today. “Nikolai. He was. Young. Anyway, it was…” He waved, off-handedly. “It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago.”

Bruce didn't know if he was talking about Olga’s little boy, or about Jason. Neither, probably.

Probably both.

Clark got up, and walked up to Bruce. a hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Bruce,” Clark said, and he could feel the weight of those blue eyes that had always seen too much. his heart was beating too fast. “He’s okay. He came back. He’s okay.”

They weren't saying Jason’s name, and Bruce could still feel the shaking, in his chest and his knees and his throat, and he didn't know why, why it felt this way, this yawning gulf of fear—he looked up, at Clark, gripped the back of his neck, shoved his cowl off, and surged forward, kissing him hard, hard enough that Clark gasped in shock, and that was enough for Bruce to slide his tongue into that hot, wet heat, to bite at Clark’s soft, full lower lip, to push against his tongue, and groan into his mouth.

They hadn't actually done this many times, all in all. Eight, to be precise, and it wasn't for lack of wanting—Bruce had seen the way Clark looked at him sometimes, Bruce knew he had done a piss-poor job of hiding how badly he wanted too.

It was the afterwards, that made it hard. The separation, the getting up and walking away, while every cell in his body screamed at him not to, ached for Clark, ached to bear him down onto some flat surface, lock their mouths together and _never_ leave, _never_ not taste him, touch him, watch him come unstrung in Bruce's arms.

Addiction. It was the only word for this.

“Bruce,” Clark said, against his lips, shocked, a thin, soft pitch, and didn't he understand—couldn't he see that Bruce needed this, needed it now—

“Bruce,” Clark said again, the third time tonight, stroking the side of his face when Bruce moved to his jaw, his neck, saw deep red rise to his skin before it disappeared where Bruce dug in his teeth. Clark’s hips shuddered against his, and Bruce slotted them together, let Clark feel how hard he was, how hard they both were getting, curling his fingers into that perfect goddamn ass. “Wait, damn you, _no,”_ Clark said, so gently that it took him a second to process the words.

When he did, it was—it was a hot, sharp knife, cauterizing as it cleaved open his chest, a sharp, precise thing with fiery, jagged teeth, clawing out his heart. Bruce pulled back, as far as he could, bracketed between Clark and the workstation. Clark’s hands were still on his hips, and his jaw was a line as hard as cold-forged steel.

“I can't do this anymore,” Clark said, harsh, quiet, and Bruce looked away, some far point over Clark’s shoulder. The grip on his waist was tight to the point of pain, and his heartbeat was a crashing tsunami wave. “I can't—I can't—Bruce, _look at me.”_

Bruce complied, reflexive. Blue-on-blue, were those eyes, like sunlight shining through bottle glass on a summer day in Montana, and this is what heartbreak felt like, Bruce thought distantly. This is what a broken heart felt like.

 _Good,_ some far off voice of reason told him. _Good, this is good, this is safe,_ but there was a scream in his chest that couldn't get out and _good_ felt like a curse.

“I can't do this,” Clark said, relentlessly cruel, and then he said, “I can't kiss you, I can't hold you, and then walk away. I know you don't—it's not the same for you, I know, but I _can't_. It hurts too much, do you understand? Wanting you, and having you, and then _leaving_ —it makes it worse, so I can't—please don't make me, because I _can't_.”

Oh.

Oh.

“It's the same,” Bruce said, and wondered how his throat was still working. “For me. Clark, _Christ_. It's always been the same—” and Clark made some awful, broken sound, and kissed him, kissed him hard and long and fierce, and then they weren't kissing, because it was hard to kiss when you were smiling so much, _it's the same,_ when little, breathless laughs kept bursting from Clark’s mouth, like touches of sunshine, _i need you too,_ when his mouth tasted like apples and winter air, _it's the same way for me that it is for you,_ and when Bruce’s veins felt like he was filled with champagne, sweet and warm, fizzing with joy, _and i love you, i love you, i love you._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hit kudos if you liked it <3  
> find me on tumblr [@pasdecoeur](http://pasdecoeur.tumblr.com)
> 
> addendum: i carry your heart... reproduced in full, for no reason other than i want to:
> 
> i carry your heart with me(i carry it in  
> my heart)i am never without it(anywhere  
> i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done  
> by only me is your doing,my darling)
> 
>                  i fear  
> no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want  
> no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)  
> and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
> and whatever a sun will always sing is you
> 
> here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
> (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
> and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
> higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
> and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
> 
> i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


End file.
